


All Things Will Come With a Little Time

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Princess Diaries Fusion, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-05 17:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10313600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: Princess Diaries AU.“Exactly,” Louis said, looking squarely at Combeferre. “You are not just Combeferre d’Orléans. You are Louis Philippe Combeferre d’Orléans, Prince of Gondour.”Combeferre gaped at him. “Me?” he asked, his pitch rising to something approximating what only dogs could hear. “A prince? You have got to befuckingkidding me.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JJ91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ91/gifts).



> The ever-wonderful [@jj91s](https://tmblr.co/m37sHCbKJofvA3h3SQLUyyg) asked for some Combeferre/Grantaire with wide latitude to interpret that how I want, so I decided to interpret that as. a Princess Diaries AU because why not?
> 
> Based mostly on the movie because I haven’t read the books in forever, though I’ve taken some liberties. Title comes from the song “Miracles Happen” by Myra as featured in the Princess Diaries film, and the name of the fictional country Gondour is stolen from Twain.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: if you recognize it, I'm only borrowing it and will return it mostly unharmed. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Combeferre sighed heavily as he looked at himself in the mirror. “As per usual, this is as good as it's going to get,” he said, straightening the tie of his school uniform and not even bothering to try to make his hair lie flat instead of curling uncontrollably around the edges of his glasses.

At 17 years old, Combeferre had spent most of his high school years as the less handsome and less charismatic best friend of Enjolras and Courfeyrac, and while he tried and mostly succeeded in not letting it bother him, there were some days that were worse than others.

He had a feeling today was going to be one of those days, not the least of which was because his long-estranged grandfather had arrived out of nowhere and wanted to have dinner with him.

“Someone sat on me again,” Combeferre told Courfeyrac as he slumped down next to him on a bench in the school courtyard.

Courfeyrac glanced up at him, concern vying with laughter on his face. Concern won, and Courfeyrac winced sympathetically. “Really?” he asked, resting his head against Combeferre’s shoulder. “I don’t know why that keeps happening. It’s not like you’re invisible.”

“Sometimes I feel like it,” Combeferre muttered.

As if to prove his point, at that moment, Enjolras appeared at the far end of the courtyard, and Combeferre could’ve sworn that practically everyone there got whiplash from how quickly they looked over at him, Courfeyrac included. “What light through yonder window breaks?” someone sighed on the other side of Combeferre, and he turned to scowl at Grantaire, who didn’t even bother to look abashed. “It is the east and — well, you know the rest.”

Enjolras ignored all the stares and crossed over to sit down next to Courfeyrac. “Alright,” he said, his tone brisk, “Principal Valjean said that we could have a table for the electoral college petition in the cafeteria during lunch today, and we pass out the petition after school. Everyone good?”

Grantaire raised his hand. “Do I have to participate?” he asked.

“Do you _want_ to participate?” Enjolras asked, sounding vaguely impressed.

Grantaire contemplated it for a moment. “No.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “Anyone _else_ have a problem with helping out after school?”

“I can’t,” Combeferre said. “I have to meet my grandfather after school.”

“Oh, right,” Enjolras said, making a face. “You sure you can’t get out of that?” When Combeferre just looked at him, Enjolras sighed again. “Fine. But then you get to go around to tables during lunch to try to convince people to sign.”

Courfeyrac laughed and threw an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders. “Right, because there’s nothing Combeferre loves more than talking to strangers.”

Grantaire nudged him in the ribs. “Just bring it over to my table,” he said in an undertone. “I’ll get everyone to sign it.”

Combeferre shot him a grateful look as Enjolras flagged down Principal Valjean. “Principal Valjean,” Enjolras said officiously. “Thank you again for your help with our petition efforts.”

Valjean looked like he had no idea what Enjolras was talking about. “Right,” he said. “You’re welcome, Enjolras.” He nodded at Courfeyrac. “Courfeyrac.” He switched his gaze to Combeferre and hesitated. “Courfeyrac’s friend.

Combeferre sighed. It was definitely going to be one of those days.

* * *

Combeferre stared around the inside of the rather palatial building he previously hadn’t known existed in Chicago. The staff members he had met thus far had vaguely European accents, and while Combeferre boasted a perfect GPA that included an A+ in World Geography from freshman year, he couldn’t remember anything he had learned about the rather fictional-sounding country of Gondour.

A blonde-woman with a sweet smile approached him, holding out her hand for him to shake. “Combeferre?” she asked, her smile widening when he nodded. “I’m Baptistine, from the Gondourian attache corps.”

Combeferre shook her hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said, more as a force of habit than anything. “Um, where am I?”

Baptistine looked a little confused by the question. “The Gondourian consolute, of course.” She gestured toward a waiting area impeccably decorated in early 19th century style, including a settee that looked as if it had never been sat on. “Now, if you want to take a seat, your grandfather will be with you in a moment.”

“I don’t need a moment, I’m here.” Combeferre looked around for the source of the booming voice and was greeted by an impeccably-dressed man smiling at him as he approached. Combeferre was so focused on seeing his grandfather for the first time that he didn’t notice as all staff members respectfully stood and faced his grandfather, only going back about their business when his grandfather waved his hand. “You must be Combeferre,” he said, a little unnecessarily. “I’m Louis. I’m so glad you could come.”

Combeferre shrugged. “I’m glad to be here,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. “You’ve, uh, you’ve got a nice place here.”

Louis smiled at him. “Thank you. If you want to follow me, I believe tea is set up for us in the garden.”

“Tea in the garden,” Combeferre repeated, shaking his head. “You don’t hear that a lot in Chicago. And it’s good thing that we’ve been having unseasonably warm temperatures this year.”

“You’re right about that,” Louis said. “Otherwise we would have to have had tea in the formal sitting room. Or perhaps the formal dining room. Or even the banquet hall. Or…”

Combeferre tuned his grandfather out at that point, not particularly caring about the apparently long list of rooms suitable for afternoon tea in the Gondourian consulate. Instead, he focused on the ridiculous opulence of the courtyard garden they walked into, which was overflowing with flowers that, even given the unseasonably warm weather, shouldn’t be blooming at this time of year. “So,” Combeferre said as they settled down at the garden table, set with a huge display of tea sandwiches and cakes, “my mom said that you wanted to tell you something.”

Louis nodded, suddenly serious. “Yes, I have something to tell you that I think might have a very big impact upon your life.”

Combeferre wracked his brain for what could possibly have any kind of impact on him. “I already had braces,” he offered.

Louis blinked. “No,” he said patiently. “This is bigger than orthodontia.” He paused while a server came and poured two cups of tea and smiled at Combeferre once the server stepped away from the table. “Combeferre, have you ever heard of Louis Philippe Joseph d'Orléans?”

Combeferre stared at him. “No,” he said, his tone of voice indicating that he wasn’t entirely sure he should have.

Louis took a controlled breath. “He was crown prince of Gondour,” he said carefully. “And, perhaps more importantly, Louis Philippe Joseph d’Orléans was your father.”

“Yeah, sure, ok,” Combeferre said, taking a sip of scalding tea just to give himself something to do, because he wasn’t entirely sure that his grandfather was likely to understand sarcasm. “My father was the prince of Gondour. Right, ok. You’re joking.”

Raising a particularly regal eyebrow at him, Louis also took a sip of tea, clearly less affected by how hot it was. “Why would I joke about something like that?” he asked mildly.

Combeferre laughed without any real humor. “Because if he was really a prince,” he said impatiently, “then that would make me…”

He trailed off as Louis nodded. “Exactly,” he said, looking squarely at Combeferre. “You are not just Combeferre d’Orléans. You are Louis Philippe Combeferre d’Orléans, Prince of Gondour.”

Combeferre gaped at him. “Me?” he asked, his pitch rising to something approximating what only dogs could hear. “A prince? You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me.”

Louis choked on the sip of tea he had just taken. “I’m sorry?” he spluttered.

The server quickly reappeared at the side of the table. “Your Serene Highness, in America, people often use ‘fucking’ as an adverbial intensifier, much in the way one might use ‘completely’ or ‘absolutely’, or—”

Louis waved him away. “Nevertheless,” he said, his tone turning brisk in a way that reminded Combeferre eerily of Enjolras, “you are the prince. And I am Monseigneur le duc d'Orléans Louis Philippe.”

Combeferre shook his head slowly, trying to wrap his mind around what Louis had just told him. “Why in the world would you pick me to be your prince?” he asked.

Shrugging, Louis drained his tea cup and set it back on the table, ignoring the server who instantly came and refilled it. “What you must understand is that you were not _chosen_ for this — you were born for it. Since your father died, you are the natural heir to the throne of Gondour. That’s our law.” He shook his head, something a little rueful in his expression. “I am royal by marriage, which is why I am only a duke. You are royal by blood — you can rule as king.”

It took all of Combeferre’s self-control not to either puke or pass out. “Rule?” he squeaked. Gripping the edge of the table with both hands to keep from slumping out his chair like a pile of sentient goo. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” Louis looked mildly impressed with the number of times Combeferre uttered the word ‘no’. “No, you have _definitely_ got the wrong guy here. I’m not the ruler, leader, whatever you want to call it. That’s Enjolras. And I’m not the charismatic type to bring people together, either. That’s Courfeyrac.”

“I don’t really know who you’re talking about,” Louis said, raising an eyebrow, but Combeferre ignored him.

“Duke Louis—whatever your name is, you’ve got the wrong guy. My expectation in life is to be invisible, and I’m good at it.”

Louis huffed a sigh. “Combeferre,” he said, a touch impatiently, “I had other expectations as well. In my wildest dreams I never expected that your father would pass with no other legal heir besides you. But you _are_ the legal heir — the _only_ heir — to the Gondourian throne, and I am prepared to accept the challenge of helping you become the prince that you are.”

Combeferre just stared at him, a million arguments for why this was the most absurd idea in the world swirling in his brain but completely unable to be articulated. He wished he could write it down — he was always better with writing out arguments instead of trying to speak them out loud. 

But before he could even attempt another argument, Louis clapped his hands together, clearly thinking the matter settled. “Excellent,” he said. “Now, in a matter of weeks, we have the annual Gondourian Independence Day ball. I am hoping to present you to the press and the public on that occasion, which gives me that long to instruct you in the most important lessons of princehood.” He paused and for the first time all day, a genuine smile crossed his face. “I speak for the entire Gondourian parliament and the royal family when I say I have every expectation that you will perform admirably.”

Again he paused, this time his expression turning serious. “But I want no word of this until that evening. Is that understood?”

“No shit Sherlock,” Combeferre said faintly.

If Louis noticed, he made no indication of it, instead standing and gesturing for Baptistine, who materialized out of seemingly nowhere. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Spain and Portugal. Baptistine will set up our first instructional session.” He wagged a finger at Combeferre. “And remember, tell no one. The press would have a field day if they knew.”

Combeferre stood, feeling numb. “The press wouldn’t be the only one,” he muttered, thinking of Enjolras and the many times he had expressed anti-monarchy sentiment. 

“I beg your pardon?” Baptistine said politely.

Combeferre just shook his head. “Nevermind,” he said, smiling tightly at her. 

Nothing was going to change. No one needed to know. All Combeferre needed to do was figure out a way to get out of this before anyone found out.

* * *

“Are we going to a wedding?” Courfeyrac asked after he managed to regain the power of speech. “Or is your mom dating an undertaker?”

Combeferre smiled grimly. “Neither.” He gestured at the shiny black limo waiting at the curb. “It’s a present of sorts from my grandfather. He wants me to use it. Needless to say, we’ll be parking a block away from school so as not to cause a riot.”

Courfeyrac clambered into the car, beaming as he looked around. “I don’t see what you’re complaining about,” he said. “I would love to cause a riot. So would Enjolras. Speaking of, have you told him that you’re picking him up in a limousine? Because he is going to _freak_.”

“I figured I would just let him be surprised,” Combeferre muttered.

Surprised was an understatement. After Enjolras managed to stop gaping, he settled in for a long rant about the perils of the bourgeois. Combeferre,  now more of a pronounced member of the bourgeois than ever, mostly tuned him out, though he tuned back in when Courfeyrac elbowed him in the ribs. “Sorry, what?” he said.

Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “See, this is what I mean,” he said grouchily. “Your grandfather shows up and suddenly it’s like you’re miles away. In the meantime, Courfeyrac’s still trying to get his podcast highlighting important issues in today’s society off the ground, and between our petition efforts and other Les Amis activities, my parents think I’m running myself too thin and that I need to take a break.”

He paused to take a breath and Combeferre mentally agreed with Enjolras’s parents. “Moral of the story, we need your help more than ever. And a lot more beyond a really unnecessary ride to school.”

Combeferre shifted uncomfortably. “I’m really sorry,” he muttered, feeling the tips of his ears turn red like they did whenever he was under pressure. “But I can’t right now. I’ve got this grandfather thing, and—”

“What, has your grandfather turned into the evil King or something?” Enjolras sniped.

“You have no idea,” Combeferre sighed. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Enjolras levelled a look at him. “You better. And speaking of—” He pulled a sheaf of papers out of his backpack. “You can start by helping me go over the CBO estimates of Trumpcare. I want to put something out on the blog tonight.”

Combeferre took the stack of papers, grateful that the topic had changed for the moment. Now all he had to do was make sure that nothing else happened to make Enjolras or Courfeyrac suspicious of what was going on.

* * *

That plan lasted for all of 24 hours. The next morning, the limo pulled up outside of Enjolras’s apartment building, where Grantaire, who lived only a few blocks over, was waiting. “Enj, get your ass out here!” he called when the limo pulled up, though he stopped in his tracks when Combeferre stepped out of the car, his face still red from Courfeyrac, who was still laughing inside. “Holy shit,” Grantaire said.

“I know,” Combeferre said, biting his lip and running a rueful hand through his hair, which no longer curled uncontrollably around the edges of his glasses but was instead short on the sides, straightened on top and waxed into a perfect poof.

When he had seen himself in the mirror after the stylist had her way with his hair, Combeferre had remarked that he wasn’t entirely sure it looked all the princely, but the stylist had waved him off. “We’re trying to win hearts and minds, dear,” she had said, attempting to tease his hair even higher. “And what better way to do that than with a hot new haircut that shows off your strong jaw?”

If the look on Grantaire’s face was any indication, she had been right — the haircut plus a new wardrobe with skinny dress pants that clung to Combeferre in a way he was certain was ridiculous but Grantaire’s roaming eyes claimed otherwise seemed to be winning something over anyway, though it was debatable whether it was hearts and minds or something a little...further south.

“Wow,” Grantaire said in a low, slow voice that caused Combeferre to blush an ever darker shade of red.

Behind him, Enjolras jogged out of his apartment building, coming to as rapid of a stop, but with a markedly different reaction. “Holy shit,” he said. “Who destroyed you?”

Combeferre’s smile faltered. “Oh,” he said, reaching up to self-consciously touch his hair. “You think it looks that bad?”

“No, I think you sue for mental and emotional torture,” Enjolras said, still staring at him. “You look fucking ridiculous.”

While Combeferre forced an awkward laugh, Grantaire shot Enjolras a look. “He looks _hot_ ,” he said, defensively. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You think everyone’s hot,” he said dismissively.

“Not true,” Grantaire said. “I haven’t thought you were hot since the second grade when I tried to kiss you and you punched me. Ours was a brief romance, to be sure, and meteoric in both its rise and rapid fall.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras snapped before crawling into the car, and Grantaire turned to grin at Combeferre.

“Mission accomplished,” he said. “I temporarily distracted him, at least. And don’t listen to a damn word either he or Courfeyrac says. You look fine as wine, and coming from me, well…” He winked at Combeferre before clambering into the car as well.

Combeferre took a deep breath before following him into the limo, where Courfeyrac was telling Grantaire, “Don’t think that you can catch a ride with us every day. We use this time to plan future activities for Les Amis, and the last thing we need is your constant derailment.”

Grantaire didn’t respond, merely giving Courfeyrac the finger as he dug in the cabinets of the limo, clearly looking for any alcohol. Combeferre sighed. “I already checked, they cleaned out the limo before they let the high schoolers ride in it.”

“Damn,” Grantaire sighed, flopping back in his seat.

“What I really can’t understand,” Enjolras continued loudly, “is that you ditched us again yesterday for your Extreme Makeover: Jock Edition when we really needed your help. I mean, you used to care just as much as I did — as much as we all did — about making this world a better place, and now all it seems that you care about is making yourself look better.”

Combeferre tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting Enjolras’s continued rant wash over him in senseless waves all the way to school.

The worst part was that he couldn’t fully disagree with Enjolras. This wasn’t _him_ , the haircut and the fancy new clothes and whatever other lessons his grandfather was going to foist on him. But at the same time, what choice did he have?

Though he tried to ignore everything Enjolras was saying, a lone, rebellious tear managed to leak from his eye before he quickly brushed it away, pretending like he had something in his eye. Neither Courfeyrac nor Enjolras noticed, but Grantaire caught his eye, his brow furrowing as he watched Combeferre.

So it was no surprise that Grantaire settled back and let Enjolras and Courfeyrac clamber over him when they got to school before he turned to Combeferre, concern clear on his face. “Are you ok?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Combeferre told him, flashing him a tight smile.

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed with clear skepticism. “Fine,” he said. “But you should know that in order for a person who feels superior to make someone else feel inferior, he has to find someone who can be made to feel inferior.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. “Eleanor Roosevelt said that,” he said, a little surprised.

“Did she?” Grantaire asked, scratching the back of his neck. “I just thought it sounded cool. I don’t even know what it means.”

Now Combeferre rolled his eyes. “You know what it means,” he said, a touch impatiently. “It means no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

Grantaire just raised both eyebrows at Combeferre. “Well,” he said, “perhaps that’s something you should keep in mind.”

With that, he scooted out of the car and Combeferre watched as he strolled toward the school, whistling, a small smile crossing his face as he watched. The smile disappeared when he got out of the car and saw Courfeyrac waiting for him. “Enjolras isn’t entirely wrong, you know,” Courfeyrac said, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he did whenever he was nervous. “Neither of us know what’s going on with you these days, and—”

“And what?” Combeferre snapped, stalking towards the school. “And so because you have a stick up your ass about your podcast and Enjolras has a stick up his ass about — I don’t fucking know, _everything_ — you have to rag on me. Because listen, I get enough of this shit from my mother and now my grandfather and I don’t need it from the two of you who purport to be my friends!”

Courfeyrac looked at him, hurt, and for a moment, Combeferre almost felt bad. But then Courfeyrac’s face settled into a scowl. “Fine,” he snapped. “But we used to tell each other everything, and I’m not an idiot. I know something’s going on. And if you won’t tell me, then maybe we’re not friends anymore.”

It was his turn to stalk towards school and Combeferre groaned out loud. He was half-tempted to let him go, but truth be told, this secret was eating him alive. “Fine,” he sighed, catching up with Courfeyrac. “I will tell you the truth but a) you have to _swear_ not to tell anyone, and b) you’re gonna think it’s really stupid.”

Courfeyrac crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Try me.”

Two minutes later, after the fastest and most convoluted explanation of the Gondourian Royal House, Courfeyrac stared at Combeferre, open-mouthed. “You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me.”

“Funny,” Combeferre said. “That’s exactly what I said when I found out.”

Courfeyrac shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry?” he said. “I was harsh and...dude, I don’t even know what the fuck to say to that. Will you come on my podcast?”

Combeferre shook his head. “What part of you can’t tell anyone did you not understand?” he asked, exasperated. “This is a royal secret. You can’t tell Grantaire, or Enjolras — I mean, you _definitely_ can’t tell Enjolras. He once made the case for executing all modern monarchs.”

“That was for a history class debate, and besides, I’m fairly certain it was just hyperbole,” Courfeyrac said dismissively, linking his arm with Combeferre and tugging him towards school. “Besides, we have more important issues to deal with. Like, for instance, are you really sure you can run a country? You couldn’t even keep the class hamster alive.”

“Firstly, that was in fourth grade, and I’d like to think I’m a bit more responsible now,” Combeferre said dryly. “Secondly…” He trailed off as he caught sight of Grantaire leaning against the school gate, clearly waiting for them. “Secondly, I’m not really sure of anything right now.”

“So I’ve thought of a plan,” Grantaire said when they caught up with him. “Whenever someone says anything about your hair, we should pretend to mishear them and change the subject to Voltaire and then just talk loudly about the French Revolution until they change the subject.”

Courfeyrac blinked at him. “Not a bad idea, all things considered,” he said, a little grudgingly. “Think you can get Enjolras on board?”

“Give him free reign to talk about Voltaire and the French Revolution all day?” Grantaire asked. “I think he can manage that.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre told him in an undertone.

Grantaire shrugged. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “Now c’mon. You’re gonna feel like Enjolras for the day and everyone’s gonna stare at you, but I have faith that you can make it through.”

On his other side, Courfeyrac said quietly, “You know, there are pros and cons to this whole prince thing…”

Combeferre shushed him. “Be quiet,” he hissed. “People can hear.”

But as he walked into school flanked by Grantaire and Courfeyrac, with one of his best friends fully clued in on what was happening, Combeferre felt better than he had since this whole thing began. And besides, at this point, what could possibly go wrong?


	2. Chapter 2

Combeferre and Grantaire walked slowly side by side towards school, purposefully taking their time — or at least, Combeferre was. Two weeks after showing up at school with a new haircut and new clothes, and still people were talking about it. “You’d think they’d have something better to talk about,” Combeferre grumbled as some skateboarded by and wolf-whistled.  


Grantaire laughed. “Kids these days,” he said dismissively, giving Combeferre a sideways glance. “Sidebar, what are you doing this Saturday afternoon?”

“Whatever Enjolras has planned for Les Amis, I guess,” Combeferre said, though without much enthusiasm. Enjolras had gotten only slightly better after the limo incident, and instead of looking forward to Les Amis meetings, Combeferre found himself dreading them. “Unless I can find something better to do.”

Grantaire’s smile widened. “Well, in that case, I happen to have two tickets to the tattoo exhibit at the Field Museum, figured you might want to come.”

Combeferre glanced over at him, surprised. “Why would you think that?”

Shrugging, Grantaire looked away as he muttered, “Well, um, the guest tattoo artist this weekend does some really cool things with moths, and I know how much you like moths, and I’ve always pictured you with a tat, so I just thought…”

He trailed off and Combeferre quickly smiled at him. “No, that sounds awesome,” he reassured him. “Though we’re going to have to circle back to you picturing me with tattoos at some point.” He shot Grantaire another glance, more furtive this time. “So would this be, like...a date?”

“What, no,” Grantaire said, laughing nervously, though after a moment he said, “Unless you wanted it to be.”

Combeferre ducked his head to hide both his blush and the smile spreading across his face. “Hmm,” he said slowly, to buy himself time. “Would it include dinner?”

Grantaire looked scandalized. “Of course,” he said. “What do you think I am?”

“So museum and dinner...sounds an awful lot like a date,” Combeferre said, as casually as he could force himself to be, and he was far too aware of his hand accidentally brushing Grantaire’s as they walked.

“Wait for me!” a voice shouted, and neither Combeferre nor Grantaire needed to turn to know that it was Courfeyrac running after them — he had missed the limo and had to take public transportation to school. 

“So what do you think?” Grantaire asked, stopping and turning to look at Combeferre, biting his lower lip as he waited for Combeferre’s response.

“Wait for me!” Courfeyrac called again, followed by a derision-filled, “Not you, I don’t know you.”

Combeferre smiled at Grantaire as Courfeyrac jogged towards them. “Sounds like a plan,” he said before turning to Courfeyrac, who was out of breath. “Morning, Courf.”

Courfeyrac took a moment to catch his breath before panting, “Didn’t you guys hear me calling for you?”

“We waited, didn’t we?” Grantaire asked, unable to stop his grin even when Courfeyrac gave him a weird look.

Nodding towards school, where a crowd of news reporters and strangers were standing outside the building, Courfeyrac asked, “What’s going on?”

Combeferre shrugged, frowning. “No idea.”

Even as they got closer, it became no more apparent what was going on. “Maybe it’s a protest,” Courfeyrac suggested hopefully, while Grantaire just snorted and shook his head.

“Maybe,” Combeferre said, a little skeptically, and he asked one of the cameramen, “Excuse me, are you waiting for someone?”

Without warning, someone up towards the door shouted, “There he is right there! Combeferre d’Orléans!”

Instantly, the cameraman turned to point the camera in Combeferre’s face, telling him excitedly, “We’re waiting for you!”

Combeferre was blinded by the sudden flashes of a hundred cameras as every reporter shouted over each other. “Right here, Prince Combeferre!” “Talk to me!” “Look this way!”

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre shouted, panicked, whirling around to try to find him, but he had been surrounded on all sides by reporters. “Courfeyrac, did you tell?”

“I didn’t say anything!” Courfeyrac shouted back, horrified, watching as Principal Valjean practically bowled over reporters to get to Combeferre, escorting him into the school building. “I didn’t say anything.”

Grantaire looked wildly from Courfeyrac to the school and the reporters still shouting for Combeferre and asked the obvious question. “Why are they calling him ‘prince’?”

* * *

Combeferre looked up when the door to the science lab opened up, relaxing only slightly when he saw it was Courfeyrac. “You’re the most popular guy in school,” Courfeyrac told him, practically bouncing up and down on his feet. “Everyone wants to your best friend, but I think Enj and I have the in.”

“Are you sure Enjolras still wants to talk to me?”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac said dismissively. “He’s actually out in the hallway, but he wanted me to make sure it was ok for him to come in.”

Combeferre frowned at him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “I don’t know, because he probably wants to overthrow your country’s government,” he said mildly, grinning. “So real quick, since I have to get to Spanish and I’m sure Enjolras is dying to grill you, now that your secret’s out, will you come on my podcast this Saturday?”

“Yeah, sure,” Combeferre said listlessly, his eyes widening when Courfeyrac squealed and gave him a huge hug.

“You’re the best,” Courfeyrac said with enthusiasm. “I’ll go tell Enjolras that His Royal Highness deigns to see him, and keep your head up, kid — this will blow over with whatever Donald Drumpf tweets next.”

Combeferre just grunted and Courfeyrac grinned and blew him a kiss before ducking out of the room. This time when the door banged open, Combeferre didn’t bother looking up. “Valjean letting you hide in here?” Enjolras asked, and Combeferre glanced up, smiling slightly.

“Yeah, he told me to take the day...though I think that my grandfather’s security detail might’ve done some convincing of their own.” Combeferre sighed and looked away from Enjolras. “So if you’re going to say something, you might as well do it now, before we get interrupted by someone.”

Enjolras shrugged, leaning against the chalkboard, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “I don’t have anything to say,” he said mildly, but Combeferre could hear him trying not to laugh. “Well, anything other than...a prince? Really?”

Combeferre sighed and tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. “Here it comes.”

“Do you want me to make fun of you now, or save it for your coronation?” Enjolras asked, sniggering, and his laughter only grew when Combeferre gave him a look. “C’mon, you have to admit — you’re the last person anyone would ever imagine as a prince. Can you imagine the Disney movie they’ll inevitably make about this?”

“There’s always a chance that I’ll have someone super hot play me,” Combeferre pointed out.

“Fair enough,” Enjolras allowed, pushing away from the chalkboard to cross over and plop down at the lab table next to Combeferre. “So I’ve started a list of reasons why you absolutely should not be a prince. Want to hear it?”

Combeferre scowled at him. “Does it start with, ‘Because the monarchy is a patriarchal tool of the elite to keep the peasantry in line and preserve the ruling class’?” he asked. “Because shockingly enough, I’ve already thought of that reason.”

Enjolras shrugged. “Would I be wrong to say that?” he shot back.

“Of course not,” Combeferre sighed. “But there are other things to consider.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, his voice a little strange. “There are.” When Combeferre frowned at him, Enjolras sighed, tracing circles on the table with his finger. “I don’t know, maybe it’s a little selfish of me, but...you’re going to have, like, royal obligations and such now. It’s already started. And it means that you’re not going to be able to help out on Les Amis stuff, not just because you don’t have time, but because the ruling monarch of a country can’t generally get involved with passing petitions against another country’s president.”

Something tightened in Combeferre’s chest, and it took him a long moment to make sure his voice was controlled enough before he said, “If you’re concerned about the impact on Les Amis—”

Enjolras looked over at him, eyes wide. “No, not like that!” he said quickly. “I mean, yeah, I am, but…” He broke off and looked away. “I’m worried about losing my best friend.”

“What?” Combeferre asked, with a dry, almost nervous laugh. “Why would you even think that?”

Shrugging slightly, Enjolras didn’t make eye contact with Combeferre as he muttered, “Well, it’s not like we really talk about that much besides Les Amis…”

Combeferre sighed and leaned forward, forcing Enjolras to look at him. “Nothing will change,” he said firmly. “And I promise that I will continue doing everything I can for Les Amis up until the point where they force a crown onto my head. Ok?”

Enjolras smiled slightly. “Well in that case, there’s a march downtown this Saturday to protest the latest immigration order. You in?”

“Absolutely,” Combeferre said, giving Enjolras a reassuring smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

For a moment, it looked like Enjolras might also hug Combeferre, but he settled for giving him a high-five. “Excellent,” he said briskly. “I’ll text you the details — and I can’t wait.” With that, he headed for the door, but paused halfway there. “Oh, Grantaire’s hanging around outside. Do you want me to send him in or send him away?”

Combeferre groaned. “Grantaire and Saturday...shit,” he sighed. “Go ahead and send him in.”

Enjolras hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but instead nodded and left. After only a brief moment, Grantaire poked his head in. “So I’m not entirely sure of the protocol here,” he hedged.

Combeferre frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”

‘Well, like, do I bow? Curtsy? And what do I call you — Your Royal Highness? Prince? Sir?”

Rolling his eyes, Combeferre told Grantaire dryly, “Call me sir and I will punch you in the kidneys.”

Grantaire snorted. “Fair enough...your highness.” With that, he stepped fully into the room, offering Combeferre a sweeping and surprisingly elegant bow before approaching. “Dare I ask how you’re handling everything?”

Combeferre shrugged. “About as well as can be expected.” He looked sideways at Grantaire. “Are you mad that I didn’t tell you?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire said instantly, smiling reassuringly at Combeferre. “It does explain why you’ve been a little preoccupied, but you don’t owe anything to me.” It was his turn to give Combeferre a sideways glance. “And you don’t have to lie and pretend like you’re not freaking out.”

Combeferre let out a shaky laugh and reached up to run an hand through his hair. “Well in that case…” He shook his head. “In that case, frankly, I don’t mind saying that I don’t particularly want to run my own country, and at the moment, I’d love to just tell everyone that I simply quit.”

Grantaire shrugged. “So quit.”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” Combeferre said, surprised. “I mean, yeah, I can technically refuse the position, or abdicate the throne, but…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Then what would the people of Gondour do? The monarch is their head of state and without one, it could throw the whole country into chaos.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “So then you can’t quit.”

Combeferre sighed and slumped back in his chair. “So then I can’t quit,” he agreed. After a long moment, he said, “I just wish there was a way to know that I could actually do this.”

“You can,” Grantaire said, stating it plainly, as if it was a given fact. 

“As much as I appreciate your faith in me,” Combeferre said with a smile, “and trust me, I do appreciate it, I’m not sure that’s enough.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Well, you don’t really have any other option. You just...have to try.”

Combeferre laughed lightly and shook his head. “So then I try, I guess,” he said, before shaking his head and sighing. “Oh, and before I forget — I’m so sorry, but I have to do something on Saturday with Enjolras.”

Grantaire went very still. “With Enjolras?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Combeferre said, looking away from him. “I just...he’s worried that our friendship is changing, and I need to show him that it’s not. So I figured we could, you know, reschedule the Field Museum. Maybe go next weekend?”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, standing up without looking at Combeferre. “Yeah, that’s—yeah. Sure.”

Combeferre looked at him, concerned. “Are you ok with that?” he asked.

Grantaire gave him a tight smile. “I’m absolutely fine,” he promised, bowing once more. “I live to follow your royal edict.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that—” he started, but Grantaire was already gone, leaving Combeferre staring after him and wondering just how much worse this day could even possibly get.

* * *

As it turned out, it could get worse when his grandfather, after lecturing him about dealing with the press, practically accosted him that afternoon at prince lessons and tied him to a chair with Hermès scarves. “Is it customary in Gondour to imprison your dinner guests with scarves?” Combeferre asked, his bad temper getting the better of him.

Luckily, his grandfather didn’t rise to the bait. “The scarves are a training tool,” he told Combeferre, gesturing at the expansive cutlery set out before them. “In time you will learn to sit and eat properly without them. In the meantime, we will go through some of the more common courses you might be presented with at a dinner and the proper way to eat them.”

Sometime during the third course, Combeferre set his fork down on the table. “Grandfather,” he started, but Louis cut him off.

“Never set a used piece back on the table,” he instructed. “Once you pick it up, it should never again touch the table.”

Combeferre quickly transferred the fork to his plate and started again. “Grandfather, did my dad always want to be a prince?”

Louis looked surprised by the question. “Of course,” he said instantly, though after a moment, he hesitated and added, “Except once, I suppose, about 18 years ago when he met a lovely woman whom he fell deeply in love with.” When Combeferre frowned at him, Louis smiled and told him, “Your mother.”

“Oh,” Combeferre said, feeling stupid that he hadn’t realized earlier.

Louis nodded and took a sip of wine. “So he had a decision to make, one no one could make for him, though I’ve certainly been accused of trying.” He shook his head. “Phillipe realized that the love he felt for one person — or even two — could not make him forget the love he felt for his country and its people. More than anything, he wanted to make his country a better place.” He smiled at Combeferre over his glass of wine. “Plans your friend Enjolras might find quite interesting. There’s a reason he took on the name Philippe Égalité — he wanted to reduce the power of the monarchy and the upper house of Parliament, return some of that power to the people.”

Combeferre stared at him, surprised. “I had no idea,” he said.

“I know,” Louis said simply. “Now finish your salad — they’re ready with the sorbet.”

* * *

That Saturday brought a Chicago winter back with a vengeance, but Combeferre was grateful for the cold — it allowed him to bundle up in as many layers as he could, which helped him slip past the paparazzi that had started camping out in front of his apartment building. “Is that you?” Enjolras asked, amused, when he met up with him downtown. “I can barely tell.”

“Yeah, well, that’s kind of the point,” Combeferre said, his smile hidden under his scarf. “So, what exactly is the plan for today?”

“We’re starting here in about…” Enjolras checked his watch. “25 minutes, and marching to Federal Plaza via Upper Wacker so that we can make a brief stop in front of Trump Tower.”

Combeferre rubbed his mittened gloves together. “Excellent,” he said. “I assume someone let all the media outlets know?”

“Of course,” Enjolras said, grinning. “And since none of them have showed up yet, will you kindly remove that ridiculous scarf from your face? You’ve got to be sweltering in there since it’s not _that_ could out.”

Though Combeferre hesitated for a moment, he knew Enjolras was right, and he tugged his scarf down and took off his hat, surprised and a little embarrassed when a few people in the crowd recognized him and called out to him. “You can thank Buzzfeed for telling the millennials who you are,” Enjolras told him. “I mean, it’s been front page news all week, but you and I both know the kids don’t read newspapers anymore.”

Combeferre sighed. “Just my luck, I suppose,” he said, and only just managed to resist the urge to pull his scarf back up. “You got a protest sign for me?”

“Naturally,” Enjolras said, grabbing a picket sign from the pile and handing it to Combeferre, who looked critically at it.

“The power of the people is stronger than the people in power,” he read aloud. “It’s a bit wordy, but…” He trailed off, remembering what his grandfather had told him about his dad, a smile stretching across his face. “I like it.”

Enjolras clapped him on the shoulder. “Absolutely.” With that, he went to talk to the march organizers and Combeferre was asked to sign a few autographs, which was something he was pretty sure he was never going to get used to. Then, suddenly, Enjolras was addressing the crowd. “Citizens, friends, neighbors!” he called. “Whatever the outcome of our march today, whether the repeal of the travel ban or not, what we are creating is a revolution! Just as the smallest spark can light up a whole city, so too will our efforts illuminate what’s best in the whole human race!”

His speech was met with cheers, and without further ado, the march stepped off. Combeferre was grinning, feeling more like himself than he had since this whole stupid prince thing began. It was easy for him to stay in the middle of the crowd, and so nice not to have people calling his name or trying to get his attention.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

There was a crowd of reporters waiting at Trump Tower, many more than Combeferre would’ve expected, and he swivelled around to look for Enjolras and ask what was going on. Out of nowhere, Enjolras appeared next to him, grinning. “Isn’t it great?” he called over the noise of the crowd.

“Why’re there so many reporters?” Combeferre called back.

But Enjolras didn’t answer, instead throwing an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders and practically dragging him to the front of the group. “Smile,” he told Combeferre, grinning himself. “With you here, we’ll make front page news throughout the country.

Combeferre stared at him, shock dousing him like cold water. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouted. “You invited me here just to get on the front page of the Trib?”

“Not just the Trib,” Enjolras said, though his smile faded. “With a picture of you, we might the Washington Post, New York Times, definitely the front page of Buzzfeed…”

Combeferre yanked away from Enjolras, fury pounding through him. “I can’t fucking believe you,” he said, more hurt than angry. “You’re using me!”

Enjolras shook his head, irritation flashing across his face. “I’m using the available resources to maximize our message,” he shot back. “You _used_ to believe in this exact thing! You were the one who developed this strategy.”

“That doesn’t mean—” Combeferre started, though he broke off when the reporters caught sight of him and started screaming his name. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

“Then what do you want?” Enjolras asked, glaring at him. “You want me to bow and walk two steps behind you for the rest of our lives? You said you still wanted to be a part of Les Amis — well this is what we do.”

“No,” Combeferre said, shoving his protest sign at Enjolras and taking a step back. “This is what you do. I’m out.”

Without another word, he turned on heel and left, elbowing his way through the crowd as he hastily pulled his scarf back on, pretending that it was just the wind whipping in from the lack that was causing tears to prick in his eyes.

* * *

“Tell me,” Louis said, his voice tight with anger, and Combeferre flinched as he slammed the newspaper on his desk in the Gondourian consulate, “when we discussed effective ways to interact with the press, did I somehow give you the impression that this was it?”

“No,” Combeferre mumbled, looking down at the floor. He didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to see the picture of him with the protest sign splashed across every major newspaper. The AP photographer had managed to get a great picture of Combeferre yelling with the massive Trump Tower sign directly behind him — and had managed to crop Enjolras from the picture, which was who Combeferre had been yelling at.

Louis took a deep breath and folded his hands, his expression carefully blank. “There’s really not much to say,” he said stiffly. “You are a representative of our country and as such you cannot take part in activities of this nature. You cannot openly criticize another country’s elected president, not when we have trade deals with said country on which our people rely.”

“I get that,” Combeferre said quietly. “And while I’m sure it’s too late — I’m sorry.”

Louis looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head and sighed. “In any case, I believe that you are making a wise decision to abstain from the position.”

Combeferre nodded. “And I suppose that means I shouldn’t come to the Independence Day ball.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Louis said crisply. “You’re still family, even if you no longer wish to be our prince. We’re not sending you into exile, and besides, I believe your mother’s still planning to come. All your guests are still invited, with the exception of whichever friend thought this was a good idea.” With that, he stood, smoothing the front of his suit. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must meet with the press do some damage control before meeting with the Americans.” He paused and hesitated for a moment before adding, “I understand your passion, and I sympathize and certainly don’t disagree with your protest’s aims. But my opinion — and yours as prince — does not matter. Our job must always be to put the will of our people first.”

Combeferre stood as well. “Which is why I don’t think I can do the job,” he said calmly. “To me, there’s nothing more important than fighting for what’s right, whatever the consequences.”

Louis smiled slightly. “You sound just like your father.”

* * *

“Courfeyrac!”

This time it was Combeferre running down the street, trying to get Courfeyrac to wait up for him. But unlike before, Courfeyrac clearly had no interest in waiting for him, and it took all of Combeferre’s ability to catch up to him. “Courfeyrac, please,” he panted when he finally did. “Can I just talk to you for a minute? Please?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac said, his expression stony. “Let’s talk. But what should we talk about, hm? How you broke Grantaire’s heart? How you abandoned me on my live podcast and I had to have Jehan read astrology predictions for an hour?

Combeferre sighed. “I’m sorry,” he told Courfeyrac quietly. “I’m sorry that I didn’t call you to tell you that I couldn’t make it. I’m sorry that I’ve been all over the place lately. It won’t happen again.”

Courfeyrac crossed his arms across his chest. “No, it definitely won’t, because I’m not gonna make the mistake of trusting you again.” His jaw tightened. “And after all I did for you...keeping your royal secret, not telling any of our friends...I mean, do you know how hard it is to have a podcast about the news and not be able to share the most important news of my life?”

“I know,” Combeferre said, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off the impending headache he could feel coming on. “And I’m sorry. That’s what I came here to tell you — I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t fix or change anything, and I know it won’t make up for it, but…” He hesitated. “Saturday night is the Gondourian Independence Day Ball, and to try to atone for me missing your podcast, I wanted to invite you.” He paused as if waiting for Courfeyrac to say something, and when he didn’t, Combeferre sighed and added, a little lamely, “So I hope that you’ll forgive me and...I hope you come.”

With that said, he turned and slowly started walking away, his face breaking into a smile when Courfeyrac jogged to catch up with him, linking his arm with Combeferre’s. “But what will I wear?” Courfeyrac asked, grinning.

“I honestly don’t care,” Combeferre said, turning and giving him a hug. “And it doesn’t matter. I’m just so happy you’re gonna come!”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac said, though his smile faltered slightly. “But not as your date, right? Because I just assumed...well, you have someone else you want to invite, don’t you?”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

* * *

Finding Grantaire was slightly more difficult than finding Courfeyrac, but Combeferre eventually found him sneaking a cigarette behind the school. “Hey,” Combeferre said, unsurprised when Grantaire didn’t respond. “Did Courfeyrac tell you that I was looking for you? Because, I, uh, I...was.”

“And now you found me,” Grantaire said, arching an eyebrow at Combeferre and clearly waiting for him to go on.

“Right,” Combeferre said, taking a deep breath. “So anyway, I know that you’re still mad at me for blowing you off, but I wanted to make it up to you. It won’t be nearly as fun as the Field Museum, but...I’m still going to the Gondourian Independence Day Ball and I wanted to invite you. As my date.”

Grantaire stabbed his cigarette out against the brick. “Enjolras looks better in a tux,” he said flatly.

Combeferre flushed slightly. “Oh. Um, but...I really want you to be the one that I share it with. And you don’t even have to wear a tux, if you don’t want. You could wear sweatpants for all I care. I just...I want you to be there.”

For a moment, Grantaire just stared at him. Then he shook his head and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I appreciate the invitation,” he said, his tone still flat. “But I’m done.”

With that, he walked away, leaving Combeferre to stare after him, a million things he wanted to say, a million apologies he wanted to make, but it was too late.

* * *

Several hours of moping around his apartment later, Combeferre practically sprang to his feet when someone knocked on his door. “Grantaire?” he shouted, clambering down the stairs and racing for the door. “Gran—” He broke off when he saw who was at the door. “Grandfather,” he said, surprised, holding the door open so Louis could step inside. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to apologize,” Louis said, an imperial set to his shoulders. “The way that I spoke to you following the protest incident was overly harsh.”

Combeferre shrugged as he gestured for Louis to sit down on the couch and curling up in the chair across from him. “That’s all right,” he said off-handedly. “You weren’t wrong, after all.”

Louis shrugged. “As Prince Regent, perhaps not. But as your grandfather, I could’ve handled it better.” He favored Combeferre with a piercing look. “Additionally, I have been thinking about it a great deal, and the truth is, I think you’d make a very fine prine. You know, people think that princes are supposed to wear crowns, marry the princess, live happily ever after, but it’s so much more than that. It’s a real job, and one I think you would do justice.”

Combeferre blinked, surprised, and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. “You are an extraordinary person, Grandfather,” he said carefully, “but I just don’t think I’m meant to do this. I would be so afraid that I would disappoint the people of Gondour, and I don’t think I could bear to disappoint you again.”

If Louis had expected a different response from Combeferre, he didn’t show it, instead nodding impassively. “Well, as I said, I have faith in you.” He hesitated before adding, “I do have one favor to ask: I need you to formally renounce your title at the ball.”

“Make a speech?” Combeferre asked, his voice squeaking a little, and when Louis just nodded, he asked, his pitch still a half-octave higher than usual, “Considering my history with the press, don’t you think that maybe it would be better if you did it?”

Louis just shook his head, smiling. “Now, now, it won’t be as bad as all that. Besides, I’ll be right there with you.” He reached out and patted Combeferre’s knee. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Sure,” Combeferre said dully. “Nothing to worry about.”

* * *

But as the ball crept closer, Combeferre could feel panic set in, and he was seriously considering just ditching the whole thing. And he very well might have, if it weren’t for someone he didn’t expect showing up outside his door the afternoon of the ball. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting dressed?” Enjolras asked, leaning against the door frame.

Combeferre stared at him. “I’ve got a few hours left,” he said numbly, stepping back automatically to let Enjolras come in. “Aren’t you supposed to be exploiting the celebrity du jour to further your cause?”

“Oh come on,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes as he followed Combeferre into the apartment. “Exploiting is a bit strong of a word.” When Combeferre just crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at him, Enjolras allowed, “Ok, so maybe I did, a little, but I thought you’d be ok with it. Seriously. Or else I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Like hell you wouldn’t,” Combeferre said, though he couldn’t help but smile a little.

Enjolras smiled as well. “Maybe you have a point there,” he said. “And in that case, I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Combeferre was tempted to not accept his apology, but then he sighed and shrugged. “It’s fine,” he said. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter anyway. You got your wish - I’m not going to be the prince of Gondour.”

Enjolras went very still, staring at him. “You’re not?” he asked.

“No,” Combeferre said, plopping down on the couch and drawing his knees up to his chest. 

Enjolras sank down across from him, something like disappointment on his face. “But...I want you to be.”

Combeferre’s mouth was hanging open in shock and it took him a solid minute to recover. “You...what?” he managed.

Shrugging, Enjolras looked away, his cheeks turning a little pink. “I just...I know that I gave you a lot of reasons to not be a prince, but I never gave you the reasons why I think you should. And the truth is...you being a prince is kind of a miracle.”

Combeferre shook his head. “A miracle?” he repeated, incredulous. “It’s not a miracle! It’s a nightmare!”

Enjolras shook his head as well, his tone turning emphatic. “No it’s not,” he said fiercely. “Think about it! Courfeyrac just found out that his last podcast was only streamed by 20 people. And after you left the protest on Saturday, three-quarters of the crowd left as well.” He shook his head again. “Wanting to change the world, but having no power to do it? That’s a nightmare. But you…”

“What about me?” Combeferre asked, his voice quiet.

“You have the power to affect change, to make people listen,” Enjolras told him. “How many teenagers have that power? What more of a miracle do you want?”

Combeferre shrugged helplessly. “I don’t want more of a miracle,” he protested weakly. “Just...a different one.”

Enjolras stood, his expression back to its usual stubborn set. “Well I don’t know how many miracles you think you’re going to get. I have a feeling you’re going to have to make due with the one you’ve got.” He hesitated before adding, “And whatever decision you make, just know this — I’m proud of you no matter what you decide.”

* * *

Louis stood up in front of the assembled guests at the Gondourian consulate wearing his dress uniform from the Gondourian armed services. Courfeyrac stood by himself at the front of the crowd, looking around nervously. “Where the hell is he?” he muttered to himself.

After glancing up at the clock, which showed five minutes past the time when Combeferre had been scheduled to make his announcement, Louis took a deep breath and smiled pleasantly at the crowd. “My fellow Gondourians and honored guests, good evening. I apologize for the delay, but allow me to welcome you to our grand Gondourian Independence Day Ball. thank you so much for your patience.”

He looked up at the clock again and glanced around, clearly looking for Combeferre, and took another deep breath. “I have an announcement to make. My grandson—”

“Ahem.”

Louis turned to find Combeferre dressed impeccably in a fitted tux, smiling at him, and returned his smile before turning back to the assembled guests. “I would like to announce that my grandson has arrived. Combeferre, would you care to say a few words?”

It was with more confidence than he at all felt that Combeferre made his way to the podium, and he had to take a couple of deep breaths before starting. “Thank you, Your Serene Highness,” he said to his grandfather before turning to everyone else. “Hi — um, hello. My name is Combeferre, and, uh, I’m really no good at speechmaking. I prefer to be behind the scenes and normally leave talking in front of crowds to my two best friends. But in their own way, both of them have helped me make this decision.”

He took another deep breath and smiled at Courfeyrac, who winked at him. “This evening, I had every intention of giving up my claim to the throne, and my best friends Courfeyrac and Enjolras helped me by telling me that it was ok, and by supporting me like he has ever since we met in second grade. But then I wondered how I’d feel after abdicating my role as Prince of Gondour. Would I feel relieved, or sad, or just empty? And far more importantly, would I be making a decision based on what’s best for the people of Gondour, or for myself?”

Again Combeferre looked up, and this time he stopped, staring just past Courfeyrac at Grantaire, who was pushing through the crowd, as sharply dressed at Combeferre. A smile spread across Combeferre’s face and he ducked his head before continuing, “And that was when I realized that the most important job a prince can ever have is doing what his people need to do. And if I were the Prince of Gondour — or one day even the King of Gondour — then my thoughts, and the thoughts of people much smarter than me would be much better heard, and maybe, just maybe, though thoughts could be turned into positive actions to better everyone’s lives.”

This time, the breath he took was more to steady himself than anything, and when he again looked at the crowd, it was with an entirely new demeanor. “So this morning when I woke up, I was Combeferre d’Orléans. But now, I choose to be Louis Philippe Combeferre d’Orléans, Prince of Gondour.”

The assembled guests burst into applause, but Combeferre didn’t care about any of them. He had eyes solely for Grantaire, who was smirking at him while applauding. Combeferre slipped around the parapet and crossed to Grantaire, kissing him in front of everyone, not even caring that the entire world was watching.

Grantaire kissed him back, equally fierce, and when they broke apart, it was to applause and whoops (mostly from Courfeyrac, who was beaming like a proud mama at them). “You came,” Combeferre said, his arms still wrapped around Grantaire’s neck.

“I did,” Grantaire said, his smile softening. “Enjolras came and talked to me. He explained everything. And I knew that I had to be here.”

“And how very glad I am that you are,” Combeferre murmured.

Grantaire cocked his head slightly before asking, “Why me?”

Combeferre shrugged, like the answer was obvious. “Because you saw me when I was invisible,” he answered simply, before kissing Grantaire again.

This time, when they broke apart, Grantaire smirked at him again. “You know, I always used to dream of making out with a prince.”

“Oh really?” Combeferre asked, laughing. “And how does this compare to the dream?”

“Meh,” Grantaire said dismissively, and when Combeferre smacked his arm, he laughed and admitted, “A hell of a lot better, to be honest.”

Combeferre shook his head and laughed. “I have to go meet some important officials. Save a dance for me?”

“As Your Highness commands,” Grantaire said.

Combeferre rolled his eyes again and turned to find his grandfather, his shoulders set with a confidence that just a few weeks ago he never would’ve known that he could have. He had a feeling that no one would ever accuse him of being invisible again, but this time, the thought didn’t send him into a panic spiral. 

For the first time in his life, Combeferre was ready to stand out.   



End file.
